Iron Tarkus: The Iron Golem
by Sir Cloud
Summary: This about Iron Tarkus, his background and the challenges he faced before his untimely demise. There isn't much lore on Tarkus so I kind of went free roaming here. It will eventually all merge into one solid story (I hope) so I want to leave people on the edge for the next chapter. Enjoy! Comment on anything you'd like to comment about :) (I'm continuing to edit the whole thing.)
1. Chapter One: The Stories, The Legend

**Prologue: Firelink Shrine.**

"Tarkus I… I have…" The once brilliant blue surcoat of the Elite Knight was now as tired and worn as he was. His helmet's pot-holed grill concealed his distraught emotional expression. The helmet was a blessings at times, to hide his anger, to hide his sarcastic grin, but when he was overjoyed and wanted to express himself, the dull grey iron shielded it from the world.

The Knight, in his tarnished silver armour stood with his arm slightly bent, his armour plates knocked together as he shakily gripped a piece of parchment with bright white, neon glowing text.

"I know my father is gone." Tarkus replied plaintively, before the Knight could reveal the contents of the letter. Tarkus, a giant of a man encased in an ebon dark bulbous mass of iron, sat, knee's apart, chin cupped in his hands, contemplating and staring deeply into the raging bonfire before him.

There was a dead silence as the brisk wind played with the flames; dancing and sparking, embers taken in the breeze.

Tarkus lowered his head, unsure what to do in the awkwardness he scratched a line through his gauntlet. The clump of rust peeled off like a slice of orange and fluttered away, revealing a dull reflective leaden iron. He could see the six black holes in his visor looking back at him, lifelessly.

"Do you want this?" The Knight did not know what to say, but he asked anyway, his voice soft and kind. Tarkus shook his head and shuffled back into a comfortable position, he rose slightly to push the leathery strands of his skirt underneath to cushion himself on the cold rock and grassless ground. The Shrines crooked, defaced statues loomed over, their shadows casting them in darkness. They appeared to the Knight as peering, eerie eavesdroppers, absorbed in their conversation that dare not look away.

The Knight crumpled the parchment and let it go, it spun over and swiftly dove off into the overcast sky. The clouds grew denser, a mass of grey and black slowly floated overhead. The rain would come eventually, but the fire of the shrine always lingered on, comforting any weary traveller.

"My father… he was a great knight of Berenike." Tarkus finally plucked up the courage to talk about his old man. In the last days before Tarkus left to this land, Lordran, he saw his father for the last time. He was losing himself, his mind degraded, his soul diminished. He did not even recognise his own son! It hurt.

He wanted to keep fresh in his mind the stories he had heard, of a time before he was even born. The stories, the legend, his father Iron Clad.

**Chapter One: The Stories, The Legend… Iron Clad.**

'_The past can lock away unwelcome memories, it can conceal demons or hide the truth. Whoever is the last man standing, his memories will live on in the pages of history and the fallen warrior will be forgotten, even if he was the better man, a man of truth, of justice. The scribes are paid the highest wage to write one side of a story. They do not care about filing pages of ancient scripture, they're more interested in the weight of gold…'_- Great Knight King Rendal.

A sporadic whistling wind swept up, cradling embers from a scorched bare plain. No trace of life, not even the faintest noise could be heard other than the gust. The birds that once swerved overhead were replaced by savage winged beasts, perched on burnt stumps. Their eager eyes scanned the plain, leering the fresh corpses. The forest, once rife with twisted oaks, was now cut down to mere blazed stumps and the peaceful pit-pat of wild deer's trotting could no longer be heard. Only hours ago, catapults bombarded the forest, their raining meteors tore through the sky and decimated the once glorious, flourishing greenery with a raging fire. A pall of smoke rose above the scarred woods. Men, young and old lay still, their emblems, which they swore allegiance to, meant nothing now. They were finally as one, resting together in eternal peace.

Amid the dust and smoke of the ravaged plain two great men remained, they squared off, but held back as they silently delved into their last reserves of strength.

Their nations were divided by trivial matters, both Kings claimed the land was rightfully theirs, and somewhere in the deceased plain, their banners, blood stained and torn, fluttered in the breeze. Really though… survival was all that weighed on their minds.

The taller of the two laid down his tower shield, as it crashed to the ground it broke and divided into two pieces. He gripped his Greatsword with two hands, tension wracked his body. Three spindly metal interloping tubes protruded from his dark grey cylindrical helmet, like an extravagant crown. An ebon contour resembling a river through the earth's crust, ran down the face of his helmet. The one side of his shoulder was layered with many plates, to deflect sharper piercing blades, on his other shoulder a giant curved slab defended his body where his shield could not reach. His chest was oval and wide and in the center a round small hole held a red glowing sphere. His fauld was made of chunky heavy iron and fanned out across his waist, connected below were several tasset plates which added extra protection over his greaves. The rest of his armour resembled many a Knights, only larger in scope, heavier and more defensive, yet encumbering. Engraved into the face of the plates were finely carved white intricate patterns, with numerous dents and scars alongside.

Opposite him, the young Knight Rendal, Commander of the Balder army, stood poised, his arm outstretched holding a fine tipped, yet solid Rapier, casually as if he was about to engage in fencing. The Balder armour was known for its scantily clad plating, but was physically strong, rock solid yet versatile and light. The wind blew a furious flurry, rattling between the gaps in his helmet and flapping his maroon cape viciously. The hairs on his arms pricked.

Their silhouettes cast peculiar shapes, one of a towering colossus the other a thin figure.

The fiery horizon raged ever more, the last battle cries and dying screams resonated in the fading echo. It sounded like a myriad of cries; of many survivors, but the open outdoors played tricks on their minds. The echo died, the two men slowly circled, foot over foot as if to begin a dance, their boots in steady cadence, waiting for one to strike and make a fatal blunder. One misstep, a trip on an unseen rock as they stared intensely was all it would take. They stepped forwards, the Greatsword, a mass of unwieldy iron to most men, crashed down, Rendal deflected the strike quickly with his wrist, swiftly lodging the sword into the ground. Rendal flicked forwards, chaining several blows, which resulted only in scraping agonisingly off the bulky impenetrable armour of the Berenike knight.

Iron Clad pulled the sword forth and struck, the blade caught Rendals cloak and tore it clean off his back. The cloth fluttered, stuck between sword and ground, until the sword rose upwards, the maroon twisted, flittering and twirling in the gust, back and forth before rocketing out of sight.

Rendal drew up his arm and thrust the tip forwards, it scratched another white line across Iron Clads chest plate, the oval shape stuttered Rendal in his follow up and his blade slipped across. Iron Clad brought down his elbow, covered in a round chunk of armour, and cracked down upon the Balder. The huge protective mass of armour on his back fractured, its broken bulk landed heavily onto the ash laden ground. Black particles sputtered upwards turning the once grey to black.

Iron Clad lunged forward on the assault, swaying his Greatsword exuberantly. Rendal ducked and dodged effortlessly, the obtuseness of that armour and its exaggerated size would ultimately enfeeble the man beneath it. Even his faithful Balder sword could not pierce the crude but effective Berenike armour, its empowering visage shadowing his every stride and strategy.

That dying cry resided in his mind, a constant bawling of bloody pain, he could imagine a young man holding his stump, bone jutting leg, crawling through the remnants of the once grand forest, with its canopies of greens and golds no more, desperately seeking help.

A turbid fog sifted through the ravaged landscape. A mess of wooden splinters and stakes that once held up monstrous catapults lay sprawled and where a fire had once raged, was now char coloured and black as the darkest soul.

The darkening horizon collided with the grey leaden moist clouds, a faint sprinkle of rain pattered against the armour clad warriors.

The immense Greatsword clanged down once again, Rendal cockily attempted to parry, but his side sword buckled, it pranged, splitting into two and flied wildly through the air. Iron Clad stood, silent, the shaky winds the only perceptible sound.

Rendal looked the giant in the eye, expecting his demise. He did not take a second gander, he scampered in the wet mud, globules of the muck kicked into the air as he scurried helplessly trying to locate a fallen weapon. A Balder Knight lay against a dry dead tree stump, as if he was resting peacefully. His customary Rapier lay beside him, a hue of iridescent red slithered across the face.

Rendal grabbed the hilt and spun it in his wrist, holding it upright with an emphatic swish of the blade.

Iron Clad attacked perilously, furiously heaving his sword and slammed down upon the wrecked Knight. He had read Rendal wrong, a dire misjudgement. Rendal parried the blow, he pulled back and held the Rapier two handed, in a swift motion he plunged the blade, penetrating through the iron barrier and into flesh. Iron Clad swayed sluggishly, as if he had swigged one too many jars of whiskey. The giant beast took a step back, gaining balance and swung upwards, an unfamiliar technique for such a weighty sword. He one handed the hulk of iron with ease, it flung upwards and struck Rendal on the grill of his Balder helmet, it shattered into a million shard's. The fearless, naive, and some would say reckless Knight, was thrown several feet into the air, before crashing down onto the sodden earth. Clumps of mud showered down, a heavier streak of rain pounded and coalesced into a puddle around him; the dirtied water emitted a foul stench, one of upturned corpses, which poisoned the air.

Iron Clad stood, neither wincing nor clenching his side in pain but remained statuesque beside the fallen Knight.

He rose his Greatsword and plunged it into the soft ground, the top half of its body trickled with water. He breathed heavily, in pain? Dissatisfaction? Oddly enough he was not content, he felt no pride in felling this Knight. No man could ever come back from this, their pride would take too huge a hit, there would be no legacy for valorous Knight Rendal… or would there?

The rain soaked Iron Clad finally turned to the opening firmament and looked at its dazzling multi-coloured array. The great blue sea in the sky spread its waves of shimmering sapphire, overlapping the greys and blacks, surging across until a rainbow sparkled into life accompanied by a ray of sunshine. Iron Clad held his hands high and let out an almighty bellow.


	2. Chapter Two: There's a Time for Us

**Chapter Two: There's a Time for Us. **

_One month prior to Firelink Shrine._

Tarkus, the young vibrant warrior had returned from Balder, his assistance in cleansing the Undead outbreak, which had spread within the cities walls, was over. It had been difficult to contain, every burg, back alley and settlement had been plagued by the curse. The only safe house was the castle, with its tall impenetrable walls. He did not feel fatigued, he had kept up with the Balder Royal Guard and the Elite Berenike Knights, the best of the best with ease. He ambled around his home town in Berenike, the streets were stark of the usual hustle and bustle. There was no welcoming parade, no hero's solace, he expected as much though. He strode down the familiar stone carved steps that wound into a narrow burg. As he emerged onto the cobbled street the light faded, the towering old thatched houses cast a dark shadow down the street, blocking the day's bright sun.

The highway was once bustling with people tugging carts behind them, merrily co-operating and bartering with one another, a swell of economic growth.

Animals were marched up and down for sale and there was always a commotion, a loud back ground buzz from constant bickering of all sorts. Even though Tarkus was born into royalty, proud son of Iron Clad, he had always dwelled down here. He belonged with the people, he understood their struggles and strife unlike the Council of Berenike. The citizens trusted him, he went out of his way and took great pride in speaking to each and every one of them and could appreciate how much effort life was day in day out for a peasant in the slums. They all knew he was a royal Berenike but it didn't stop him, he would take off his armour and don ragged clothes to slog away at menial tasks. No King wearing a crown would ever lend a hand, in fact, no one could remember the last time he made an appearance down here. Now and then a rabble of people would throw abuse at Tarkus, ranting about how the King left them in squalor, but he took it on the chin and luckily they weren't foolish enough to get too close. He was a giant of a man, all Elite Berenike Knights were overwhelming, their very presence and posture; when they made an entrance everyone would look up, their colossal size filling the spectator's view.

His fond memories of this place and friends warmed him, the first time he felt joyous in a long time. Slaying countless Undead, once living, breathing humans who had become withered and corrupt tended to make one cold and heartless. He looked up and down the street at the houses, they were boarded up with planks of wood. His bliss drastically vanished, he had seen this somewhere before…

Roofs had gaping holes, not from thieves but from salvaging humans, desperately struggling to contain the Undead. A cart lay on its side, stripped of wood, its wheels hung loosely, one squeaking as it spun one last time.

Tarkus looked at his neighbour's house, a criss-cross of wood and a smearing of red… to indicate the Undead? Or someone's struggle?

Wait… It'd been so long since he'd been back to his wife and child, this was his house!

The shadowed street enhanced the sombre mood, Tarkus' mind vacillated to a dark desperate place, his thoughts led only to a body; its skin pale and plastered to its bony bursting ribs. Its skull a mess of black, lifeless and devoid. But maybe… they had to be alive!

He charged through, shoulder first, ramming the planks into splinters. He stumbled through as the last slat crashed to the floor. A fetid smell, one of rotting corpses hit him hard, harder than anything he had faced on the battlefield. Adrenaline attempted to block out the nauseating feeling. He stopped as he was struck violently, gripped in a sudden silence as recent memories flooded his mind.

He cleaned his Greatsword of Undead mess, a ritual after every bout, until a muffled sob broke his trance. This was unlike the usual groans he was accustomed to when rampaging through the inhuman horde. He edged towards the voice, a mirage of swirling colours paved the way to a door, its outline bright white and its surface barred and battered. He tore the wooden barrier from the door and immediately turned to the crying. A shaking outline, small and curled lay in the depths of the corners darkness. From the state of it… it was Undead. It must have heard his steps? It didn't stir. He proceeded nervously, why so fearful Tarkus? He turned it over with the blunt face of his sword, not to cut it. A small girl in rags shivered and looked up, her eye sockets a dark mass of emptiness…

"Help me…" She croaked meekly. He took his helmet off and held it under his arm. He looked the abandoned child in the eyes, they seized him in a dark grasp. His mind was racked with a throbbing, crushing, immense sorrow. This giant man had no power here, he could not save her or any of them…

Sweat dribbled down his brow, across his cheeks and down the side of his mouth. Under his armour he suddenly felt claustrophobic, every crevice a hot pool of sweat. His neck jittered back and forth. One wall was smeared with a river of blood, copious individual trails dribbled off, where people had tried to escape using their severed limbs, clawing desperately… No it was too horrific to imagine.

A fissure in the roof rained down a speck of light upon a kneeling woman.

"Alandra!" Tarkus called out, he rushed over and held her in his arms. He pressed his head against her bosom, he could smell her sweet flowery scent.

"You're alive!" He rejoiced.

He pulled her closer, but he couldn't feel her under his reinforced armour. He removed his helmet and smelt her hair, it reminded him of a better time; the smell of pollen and daisies gliding through a summer's day. An incandescent yellow god beaming down upon the two, a tartan cloth spread across a green luscious landscape. Tall blades of grass and buckled tree's, a horizon suffused with purple and red, staring into those ardent eyes, a never ending passion.

"Tarkus?" Whose voice would interrupt this loving embrace?

"She… she's not breathing Tarkus."

The smell changed. He heaved slightly, the taste of death vivid on the end of his tongue.

He shuffled backwards on his knees and held her at arm's length to behold the atrocity before him. This must have been some sort of mistake? The sickening sensation grew, he fell to his hands, her body limply plummeted to the blood stained floor.

Tarkus coughed uneasily, choking. He gasped, but all he could taste was his own fear. A hand gripped him tight.

"LEAVE ME!" He urged, for the man's safety. The Knight of Berenike walked away shaking his head.

"No… no…" Tarkus cried, scurrying, grabbing her torn clothes and pulling her upright. Her skull dangled precariously, disjointed bones and ashen skin, the emaciated state of her body… He looked around… everyone, they were piled Undead. They were weeks old! And no one had told him. Anger swept over him, he struggled to find strength, to believe what was happening. He held her tighter, never wanting to let her go.

"But… but why? I love you… I will never love someone as much as I love you…" He held her close, tears soaking her rags. As long as he held on, his world remained an unsullied globe, acknowledging would shatter it into a million pieces, irreparable. He felt a sudden spasm. A jolt fired through her misshapen body, her wrist cracked and turned making a grinding sound like a doors rusted joints. He felt her arm writhing and clawing at his throat. He pulled her away, frightful, dislodging her arm. Her arm clung with a tenacity to his throat. He grabbed the limb two handed and stumbled, tripping over a leg sticking out of a heap of disfigured bodies and landed into them.

"Argh!" He thrashed and threw the arm to the floor, it twitched and continued to scratch its long yellow nails across the floor in hope of sinking them into flesh.

His wife lumbered forwards, zombie-like, sluggishly swaying to and fro.

He could barely see in the sparse light from the crack above, he swivelled and looked at the light creeping from the doorway with no door. Dammit… he thought, his plan was to lock them in. There was no way he could… No.

"Daddy…?" Highlighted in the slit of light were the prominent edges of a hollowed child's skull, obliquely staring at Tarkus. The gaunt boy's voice trembled, he was petrified, forlorn, staring desperately.

"My… my son…" Tarkus knelt down, with tears streaming down his face and arms outstretched.

The boy limped forwards, slivers of cloth hung loosely off his shoulders and around his waist.

Tarkus gestured with his hand, his son clung onto him and as they hugged he felt a hard bony hand wrap around his neck, the boys thumb dug harder, the pressure squeezing his father's throat.


	3. Chapter Three: Great Knight King Rendal

**Chapter Three: Great Knight King Rendal.**

"What say you? Iron Clad?" The Councillor was eagerly perched on his sturdy throne beside King Berenike, his simple crown adorned with two silver shimmering jewels. The Councillor scratched his chin thoughtfully as the silence lingered, he stared down at the giant man. An insistent tapping of fingers rattled endlessly and at the tip of his mouth a smug curve stretched. Without his armour Iron Clad was still a man of colossal proportions, old and wizened, yet capable. As their eyes met, the Councillor trembled nervously, his blinks hastened in quick succession. The stories of Iron Clad were still fresh in the deluded man's eyes, as if he was to lurch forwards and smite them down. Iron Clad looked up in disbelief at his King sitting next to an arrogant Balder Councillor. He used to hold a presence, the commander of the men of Berenike, but now the King had no time for his words. Iron Clad was a Knight of old and he still respected his King, bound by honour, not likability. He was not a dullard though, a Balder, sworn enemy of Berenike had to be sitting up there. Due to the catastrophic outbreak of Undead, the two nations were forced to sign a treaty. This treaty favoured Balder more so than Berenike. Iron Clad was not bothered about fame, but that great battle upon the scorched plain many moons ago now seized to exist. The scribes were paid excessively by Balder and the Great Knight King Rendal; who had slain a dragon with his genius and quick manoeuvrability, would be remembered for eternity. Iron Clad was shadowed in obscurity. When Rendal was found, alone, covered in mud, torn of pride, he was hailed, propelled through the words of his Father and exalted. Valorous Rendal. At first Rendal lavished in his false heroics, being heralded as a great Knight. But then the bards had something real to sing about, their songs rung out of how Rendal stood tall against a dragon, an ancient beast that the gods struggled to quell, and felled it in one swoop. It was actually a drake, a much smaller version, but, without the exaggeration of a giant dragon, the story had little gusto.

Rendal was present, sitting on a higher throne than everyone else, and whenever his eyes wavered towards Iron Clad, he quickly averted them. Rendal was draped in gold lined robes, he commanded an air of prowess through his feats, but his body was frail now, too accustomed to sitting on a throne. Balder and Berenike had been consumed by wealth. Their armies used to be great, before the Undead outbreak there was an enlightened age of commerce. The royals had become self-indulged in all things scintillating and gold. Especially gold. No one wore protective 'ugly' armour, it was all jewels and beads, golden crowns and felt lustrous robes. One swift stab in the back by an assassin would kill a 'Great King'…

Iron Clad stood, fists clenched.

"How can you take both armies into Lordran? And leave us defenceless against the Undead?" He questioned, standing straighter than ever with a look… a faded glimmer, sadness etched across the many lines in his brow.

Rendal slouched in a tall grand throne lined with golden bolts, elbow bent and hand balled against cheek, he sighed.

"Combined, Berenike and Balder can fight on both fronts." King Berenike nodded, reassuring himself and the Council. Iron Clad stood wearily, the glorious battles of old were over, these foolish men, do they really think they can stroll into the land of gods and achieve anything?

"The souls of gods lay in that land, they're up for grabs!" The Councillor laughed rapturously. His eyes glimmered as gold as the jewels encrusted into the many oversized rings on his fingers.

"Souls of gods? Listen to yourself! We are plagued by Undead! Are men come back from Balder, disheartened and frail, we cannot contain it!" Iron Clad roared, his loud voice echoing throughout the pillars of the great hall. There was an abrupt silence.

The Councillors stupid smile morphed into a disgruntled frown, he twiddled the tip of his beard anxiously.

"King Rendal will lead the charge." King Berenike cracked the silence with his deep throaty voice, demanding respect. The Kings order was final. The men clambered out of their cupped, cushioned thrones. The giant man and his shadow stepped aside as the Council exited the chamber.

Knight King Rendal remained, inattentive and vacant, he felt awash in a life full of frivolous things he did not care for. Iron Clad walked over to him.

"Maybe Tarkus should lead the forces." Rendal suggested. He drifted off, staring at the detailed paintings hanging from the wall. The Kings of Berenike, men with over-elaborate, long feathered beards, encased in giant armour, with jutting bevor pieces wrapped around their necks like plucked collars.

It couldn't keep his mind from that loss. That despair that haunted him ever since he was pulled from the earth. The code of a Knight was to finish his opponent, but he struggled with a notion, who was the man that lost his honour that day?

"Maybe…" Iron Clad hung his head, it did not matter what he said, if Rendal wanted it, it would be done.

"I won't let your name rise from the ashes…" Rendal spat spitefully. He rose, steadying himself on the side of the throne, his callused skin taut over his spindly bones.

"Why did you not finish me that day? Hmm? Where is your honour old man? Ever since then I have roamed this world as a phantom, devoid of honour, of a Knight's one pride in life. But I think… why should I? You did not honour the sworn code!" Rendal pointed his finger and yelled, his voice trailing off into a pitiful squeal.

"There is no code, it was my decision and I didn't see a reason to finish you." Iron Clad said, he paused, searching for reason. "It is true, usually the victor finishes his opponent, but not always, sometimes in gladiatorial arenas, like in the age of old, if the king and crowd did not want it, the warrior would not end his opponent."

Rendal faced the hard fact, only he had lost his honour that day and it stared him in the face. Rendal stepped down, his robes dragging against the granite steps.

He stood before the giant man and looked him in the eye.

"I'd challenge you, but what for? You're nothing now, and were nothing back then…" Rendal turned about, his robes rippled under the light, a surge of golden waves shimmering over its surface. The gold, when the light had faded, was as dull as the blackest fragment.

"What happened next?" The darkness crept over, the fire illuminated every speck of detail, setting the Knights once dull surcoat ablaze in an aura of blue. The scars across Tarkus' darkened helm came to light, and the six holes implanted across his visor deepened with a solemnity.

"I awoke, from a nightmare." He replied, languidly. He observed the attentive statues, their features curved awkwardly, as if scrutinising him now, but surely it was merely tricks from the fire and shadows?

His eyes peeled back, he had attuned to the darkness such that the rays of light were harsh, almost shimmering him blind.

That putrid taste, a hardened ever-present lump in his throat now, a haunting abhorrence. He felt around, coursing his hands through rags and solid cold, moulting flesh.

He remembered.

He shot upright and lingered there, swaying gently, a languid feeling crushed his body. His armour was so heavy now. He looked down, skin stretched over bone, he must've picked up the hand of an Undead.

"Tarkus?"

His shoulders surged, back and forth, forcefully.

"Tarkus?"

"…" He was stolid, he did not speak, could he speak? His wife and child was just an image in his mind, the features on their faces inhuman. Could he see them for what they once were?

Flecks of bright yellow glittered over the floor, the yellow drifted, he could feel waves of heat rush over him.

The Knight helped him up and looked at his covered face.

"You alright in there?"

He trudged forwards, his legs sludge like, a heavy burden pushed down upon him. Outside the street was normal… no… the doors were all open. Planks of wood strewn across the cobbled courtyard. He turned to the light, holding up his hand. A giant bonfire roared, the wind flowing, batting down the flames, only to rise once more higher than ever. A pall of smoke rose, with an unbearable smell, a scent he thought he was accustom to, but the fresh and old burning corpses released a horrifying rot that hung, the lump of phlegm choked him. Tarkus coughed, unsteady on his feet. He fell to his knees and looked up, in a glimpse he caught it, in the mound of sweltering Undead; Alandra's hand, a single band of silver on her finger. His willpower was strong, (Iron Clad the indestructible… Iron Tarkus the… the…) he stood, his burnished armour incandescent in the heat of the fire. Warnings blared out around him, but he ignored them and knelt, the fire licking his chest, a torrent of intense heat blasting through his visor. He grabbed the hand and ran his fingers over it gently.

He held her hand and smiled, softly running his fingers over her knuckles.

Familiar rows of vivid turquoise and teal stretched across the horizon. A tartan blanket, with a multitude of red shades across its face was laid out with crusty torn chunks of bread and bronze coated wild boar. Tarkus held a lilac, flower patterned jug and poured himself some more fruity wine. He brought it to his nose, a zesty surge of grapes tickled his senses. Splendid, the finest in all of Berenike!

The meadows canopies glittered in the dying light, the crisp browning leaves slowly fell, one by one, as if plucked by an invisible hand. The sol gleamed on the horizon, its rays piercing through branches, dappling auburn across them.

"I wrote you a poem." She said, smiling with glowing red in her cheeks.

"Ah…" Tarkus was struck for words, usually dashing men with long elegant blonde hair wrote intricate poems, flowing with words of passion and beauty for their wives, but Tarkus had never gotten the chance, he was a man of war. He sat back, nestling into the blanket with the utmost attention across his face.

Tall blades of grass

Buckled trees

A horizon suffused with purple and red

Staring into those ardent eyes

A never ending passion.

He took the ring.


End file.
